


once again, as in olden days

by Spacedog



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dog Tags, Domestic Fluff, Gift Fic, Gift Giving, M/M, Secret Santa, Stucky secret santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 06:40:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9059962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacedog/pseuds/Spacedog
Summary: they're ninety. they're thirty. they're neither. they're both. but they're together on christmas eve, and after everything, being together is all they can ask for. and that is a certainty.
or: steve and bucky celebrate the holidays as the rest of the world sleeps.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hohlagh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hohlagh/gifts).



> holiday gift for the part of the [stevebucky secret santa 2016](http://stuckysecretsanta2016.tumblr.com/post/153657904359/welcome-to-the-stucky-secret-santa-2016-this-is) swap. 
> 
> based loosely on their headcanon/mini-fic [here](http://hohlagh.tumblr.com/post/131929908461/dog-tags).

Flight 1610 from LAX arrives at LaGuardia at 11:09 PM on December 24th. 

Among its business class passengers: six important businessmen, a handful of frequent flyers who earned a complimentary upgrade, and a pair of supersoldiers—one Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, flying incognito. 

Bucky—with his hair looped into a messy bun and a splash of faux freckles dotting the bridge of his nose and the sharp peaks of his cheekbones—doesn't sleep on flights. He stays awake, ever-vigilant, sharp-eyed as always. 

Just in case. 

Steve, on the other hand, has the uncanny ability to fall asleep _anywhere_ , no matter how uncomfortable or cumbersome it may be. Fifteen minutes into their flight, he was out completely, only waking up twice in the six hours they'd been on the plane: once, over Colorado, for some snacks; and once, over Indiana, just briefly—to sleepily ask Bucky how much longer they had. 

He's still asleep once the plane doors open, his thick, black glasses crooked and his mouth open in a half-snore. Bucky nudges him gently, and Steve wakes immediately, going into fight mode for half a second before he's reoriented. 

"We're here," Bucky says, as Steve sinks back into his seat, relaxed with the recognition that it's just Bucky; that he's _safe._ "Come on. Let's go home." 

"Mmm, yeah," Steve says, stretching long and languid, "That sounds nice." 

\---

Going home, it turns out, takes much longer than they would have hoped. LaGuardia is chaos on Christmas Eve, and through the din, Bucky can make out Steve joking about opting for a helicarrier. They push through the dense Christmas Eve crowds, their combined bulk an effective tool against the equally determined and sleep-deprived crowd, if only barely. 

If only that bulk helped in getting a cab. Not even being _Captain America_ could help that. By the time they arrive at the familiar Brooklyn brownstone they call home, it's 12:02 AM, December 25th. Christmas day. 

_Home_ is a welcome change from the endless stream of scattered hotels and safe houses and guest rooms they'd bounced from, between the endless team missions and meetings and press events that was all December. Steve pulls out his keys, unlocking the door, only half-coordinated, and they push inside, breathing in the familiar paper-leather-coffee scent of their apartment. 

"Gimme your bags. I'm putting 'em back in the bedroom," Steve says, and Bucky obliges, shrugging his backpack off his big shoulders and handing his carryon to Steve in one fluid, familiar movement. Steve nods at him briefly, and Bucky moves out of the doorway, kicking off his shoes on the way. 

"You want coffee?" Bucky calls once he's in their kitchen, his voice carrying easily through their apartment. He pops the fridge open, skimming his eyes over the bare-bones spread. It's practically all condiments, save for two lone oranges and a carton of milk with a glaring _DEC 20_ expiration date. Bucky pops the carton open and takes a thoughtful sniff. "Milk ain't bad yet." 

"If you're making some, yeah," Steve calls back. Bucky wastes no time getting the percolator set up, and has their favorite mugs—his own, a _WORLD'S OKAYEST GRANDPA_ one, part of a birthday gift from Sam; and Steve's, a painfully hip blue speckled campfire mug—on the counter in no time. 

It's 12:19 AM when Bucky takes the percolator off the stove and gets their coffee ready, knowing how Steve takes it by heart. It's reflexive, second nature by now. He only realizes it's a new day when the old grandfather clock in their hallway chimes the quarter-hour, four minutes slow. 

"Well, would you look at that," Steve says, making his way over. "Merry Christmas, Bucky." 

Bucky takes his hair down from the messy little bun he'd tied it into for the flight. Steve tucks against the doorframe, watching him with his head tilted slightly, and a small smile on his face. For his part, Bucky doesn't seem to notice his loving audience, simply fluffing his hair out, teasing out those soft, messy waves. Like a bird. 

"Merry Christmas, Steve," he says fondly, pecking a kiss on Steve's cheek. He presses Steve's tragically hip blue mug into his hands, and for a moment, the tips of their fingers touch, feeling electric still, even after all this time. But they leave it at that, for the moment, and when Bucky leads, wordlessly settling into a moment of quiet in their living room, Steve follows. They fall into each other on that comfortably-worn leather couch, sitting together in silence—not awkwardly, but with a shared silent consideration that comes with love and time. 

Steve looks around their apartment, looking pensive as he glances from corner to corner. Bucky notices this, and follows his gaze. Their apartment has definitely seen better days. It's not a disaster by any means, but it's clearly a mess. Boxes of ornaments and string lights are strewn around their tree, yellowed pine needles are scattered around the carpet, and what gifts they've already received are sitting next to the door, far from their proper spot under the tree. It's not very Christmassy at all. 

"Hey. I know it's late, but—" Steve starts, idly playing with Bucky's hair. He doesn't seem to realize he's doing it. "Do you wanna finish decorating?" 

Bucky hums, happy that they were on the same wavelength. 

"Mm—yeah. Okay," he says, getting up with a stretch, "That sounds nice." 

And it is. They clean up the fallen pine needles, vacuuming around the scattered boxes of ornaments and dusting away what few needles found their way onto their mantle. After watering the tree and taking quick inventory of the ornaments they've got, Steve and Bucky start decorating their tree, at 1:22 AM, on the dot. 

Untangling the string lights and getting them on the tree takes much more time than they expect, and they end up having to redo all the lights when they realize the plug-side was _up,_ and they can't plug it into the outlet—but they never get tired or quit. They just laugh about it and try again. 

It's 2:08 AM on Christmas day when they start hanging their ornaments, an eclectic mix of gifted ornaments and their own set. There are several that look like the shield—including a hard-light one from Tony, gifted the Christmas that Steve woke up, and a glass star-shaped one—Steve's favorite—whose design almost resembles a glittery version of the plates of Bucky's arm. Steve lets out a little sigh when he hangs it up, and Bucky laughs at him good-naturedly. 

"Gimme the shield," Bucky says, as Steve puts the last ornament on the tree. 

"Absolutely not," Steve answers, almost instantly. 

"You don't even know what I'm gonna do with it, Rogers!" Bucky laughs, "At least gimme a chance—" 

"No, I know you well enough, Barnes. I know you're gonna think it's funny," Steve says, "And it's _not."_

"Not funny, it's gonna look great! Come on, Rogers. Lemme top the tree with your shield. Please. Just this year. Just this once. And I won't ask again." 

Steve sighs. "Alright. Fine. Just this once. And just until tomorrow night. Alright?" 

Bucky grins, wide and dazzling. Steve shakes his head, muttering something about _dating a child,_ but he's clearly charmed. He crosses the distance from their living room to the hallway, and out of a hidden panel in the wall, he pulls out his shield—safe and sound and surrounded by more heavy weaponry than some small armories. He reconsiders his answer as he walks back to the tree, but hands it over to Bucky to fasten to the top of the tree anyway. 

"Looking good," Bucky says, standing back and taking a good look at the tree. It's not much, but it's festive. Far better than when they'd just arrived. Even with the shield as the star, it looks nice. 

"Great view from here," Steve says, sitting on the floor, grinning. He slaps Bucky on the ass, halfheartedly. Languidly. Without any sort of real heat in the movement, but not for lack of love. Bucky swats him away, just as gently. 

They sit together for a moment, cradling their empty coffee mugs in their hands, admiring their hard work. It's 2:31 AM, and they're both starting to feel the holiday spirit. 

"You know what would really make the mood, though?" Steve asks, breaking the silence, "And I'm being serious." 

"What would make the mood, Mister Serious?" Bucky asks. It's getting damn late—and blame the jetlag, or blame the coffee, but he doesn't feel anywhere near tired. 

"Seasonal music," Steve answers, grinning. 

" _Only_ if you make me some cocoa," Bucky says, "And not that powdery premade shit, either. Stovetop, like we used to make. The good stuff." 

Steve whines. "We just had coffee. I let you hang up the _shield._ " 

"You want to listen to Christmas music or not, Rogers?" Bucky asks, raising an eyebrow in challenge. 

"Fine," Steve sighs, not entirely unhappily. Finally being home for the holidays is making him a real pushover. "Deal." 

"Great," Bucky says, plopping his empty coffee mug into Steve's hands, "Remember, I like lots of marshmallows." 

"Yeah, yeah," Steve laughs, pulling himself to his feet, "And 106.7's the Christmas station. Get to it." 

As Steve bangs around in the kitchen, setting up to make hot chocolate, Bucky tunes their radio to the Christmas station, cringing at the first song that comes on. It's some godawful acapella medley, and for a minute, he debates whether or not stovetop hot chocolate is _really_ worth putting up with bad Christmas music in the odd hours of the morning. Eventually, though, the godawful acapella medley ends, and a substantially better song cycles on, a synth-heavy thing with a catchy beat and a sad, sad hook. As if on cue, Steve stands at the threshold to their kitchen, two piping-hot mugs of hot cocoa in his hands, bobbing his shoulders and lip-synching dramatically. 

"You fuckin' goof," Bucky laughs, making his way to meet Steve, "Gimme my cocoa before you spill it." 

Steve just shakes his head, not even breaking the flow of his lip-synch. Bucky tries to grab for his cocoa, and Steve dodges, holding Bucky's mug close to him. 

"Come _on,_ " Bucky groans. Steve shakes his head and continues to lip sync, bobbing up and down to the beat. 

When the song shifts, he stops, grinning at Bucky and nodding his head to him, an invitation to pick up where he left off. Which he does—part because he wants his cocoa, and in part, because Steve's goofball lip syncing is too charming _not_ to join in on. So he takes the second verse, fake-crooning about love and loss on Christmas, getting far more involved in it than he'd planned. Steve hands him his cocoa in rewards, and joins in when the chorus kicks in again, the two of them lip-syncing a duet to a song that neither of them can quite relate to. 

It's a sight, two huge supersoldiers dancing and singing to a Christmas song from the 80s as the rest of the world is asleep. When the song ends, they laugh together, all but falling on top of one another. Bucky clinks his mug against Steve's, sipping his cocoa contentedly until the radio commercials end and a familiar song comes on. 

_"_ _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas?_ _"_ Bucky asks, eyes practically glittering, "You remember this song?" 

"Yeah," Steve says, "I do." 

Bucky hums the tune into his mug, looking absolutely content. Steve sighs sweetly, and he puts his mug down, making a move to Bucky, mesmerized by the scene in front of him. 

"Will you do me the honor, Mister Barnes?" Steve asks, extending his hand to Bucky like some sort of goddamn prince. All Bucky can do to that is smile and take Steve's hand, the cocoa he made such a fuss about now going entirely ignored. 

They thread their fingers together and move back to the living room, that electric buzz from earlier roaring to life when they press themselves closer together—almost heartbeat to heartbeat. Bucky takes the lead, resting his palm against Steve's little waist. Steve rests his free hand on Bucky's shoulder, and they sway, sweet and slow. As if in a trance, Steve lowers his head—just slightly, just to compensate for that minimal height difference—and presses his forehead against Bucky's, sighing happily. All eighty-something years of their relationship comes out in that moment, and they dance, slow, as if to make up for lost time. 

"Who sings this one?" Steve asks, moving to press kisses against Bucky's neck, practically murmuring into his shoulder. 

"Judy Garland," he replies, soft. "Came out—shit, '43, '44, I think?" 

"Always _did_ love Hollywood, huh?" Steve replies, lovingly. 

"Nah. Well, yeah, but—" Bucky says. Steve pulls back as Bucky speaks—all he wants to do is _look_ at him. "That was the Christmas we spent in that little town in France. Heard it on a little stolen radio there. Christmas Eve's the first time I ever heard it." 

Steve visibly shifts, his expression softening into something awestruck, something edging on fragile. "Yeah, Buck?" 

"Yeah," Bucky says, creasing his eyebrows together. Remembering was tough sometimes, and often, it could lead to things that were heartbreaking and painful—especially when he had to dig through details and find specifics. But he wanted more from this memory. He wanted to share it with Steve, especially after seeing how his eyes went all big and soft. Bucky was a sucker for that. "It'd been a bitter winter. The guys—they were excited that we weren't gonna spend Christmas in tents, for once. I think—I think we'd had dinner with some of the locals. Gabe and Dernier were our translators." 

He laughs, a little nostalgic and a little sad at the same time. 

The mood has shifted, and both of them know it. Judy Garland's not crooning on the radio anymore. That song ended some time ago, and their radio is now blaring some jingly, upbeat pop song. Not that it matters. Neither of them is really hearing it; they're both too lost in one another. 

“Hey—hey. C’mon, come with me. I’ve got something for you,” Steve says, voice soft. His hands drop down from Bucky's shoulders, taking Bucky's hands in his. It's his turn to take the lead this time; when Steve herds him to their couch, Bucky follows. 

"Sorry it's not wrapped," Steve says, looking nervous all of a sudden. The reflection of a man almost a foot smaller and a century younger flickers suddenly, ghostlike. A fragment of memory. "I wanted to—I, I was going to. But you know, there was that Hydra thing, and I got called in to D.C., and there was _this_ thing we had to do—" 

He grabs a book from their shared bookshelf _—The Collected Poems of T.S. Eliot, 1909 to 1962_. Behind it is a box, a longer, flatter version of what jewelers put rings in, clear as day in the back of the bookshelf. Bucky would have _never_ known. 

“You proposing to me, Rogers?” Bucky asks, his voice lacking its usual carefree lilt, instead, sounding feather-light and deathly serious. 

"If you want me to, I could," is how Steve replies, just as serious as Bucky. He presses the small, plain-looking clamshell box into Bucky's palm, his eyes never once leaving Bucky's, not for a second. 

"Oh my God," Bucky says, his heart beating faster than he'd ever felt it—feeling _alive_ again. " _Steve_." 

Tucked neatly into the jewelry box are Bucky's dog tags—rather, his and _Steve's_ dog tags, hooked together on one chain. They're perfect as they day they were issued, shining bright in the middle of the plush silk packaging like expensive, deep-sea pearls. Bucky assumed them lost forever, just one of the many casualties of his long, long fall. Seeing them there before him, as if to welcome him home, hits something soft and tender in Bucky's heart; he feels tears welling up in his eyes, and the warmth building in his chest is enough to make the entire Arctic melt. 

"Merry Christmas, Bucky," Steve says, his voice low and soft and completely _full_ of love. 

Bucky plucks the dog tags from the jewelry box and holds them in his palm, cradling them as gently; as if they're something delicate, something fragile. "I thought—just—how did you _get_ these?" 

"They were—f _ound_ _—_ sometime in the 90s, probably lost in Hydra's shuffle after the Wall fell. Went to the Smithsonian a little bit after that. It took, uh—took a lotta back-and-forth with a whole lotta people to get 'em. But we got 'em. We—me and Pepper got them, I mean. Mostly Pepper. Think I gave her a few gray hairs in the process. But we got 'em," Steve says. He's rambling, one of his many nervous tells. That was Steve Rogers, big and bright with the warmest goddamn heart, who couldn't tell a convincing lie for his life. 

Bucky was _so_ in love with him. 

"Got a bunch of other stuff of ours back, too, but there's still a mountain of red tape we've gotta go through to get 'em. But I—I wanted to get these for you as soon as I could." 

"I—" Bucky murmurs, and he lets that sound, that _I—_ hang heavy between them, carefully thinking over what he wants to say. Bucky was never good with words, not in the way that Steve is. He can't come up with rousing speeches on the fly. He couldn't just pull those honest, heartfelt confessions out of nowhere; he couldn't inspire a nation or hit nerves at the drop of a hat. It wasn't natural to him. 

He shakes his head, settling on winging it anyway. 

"You know, I don't think there's any following that," he says, smiling at Steve, still feeling fragile and lovestruck. 

"That look on your face was gift enough," Steve says, and whether or not he intended to be sweeter than the marshmallow-loaded hot cocoa, Bucky isn't sure, but it's lovable, anyway. 

"You big sap," Bucky says, as Steve brackets Bucky's face in his hands, pressing their foreheads together again. "Thank you, Steve. I can't—I don't think you know how much this means to me." 

Steve smiles, bright as the sun, and God, Bucky realizes, not for the first time, why he ran into hell for that boy. "I'm glad, Buck. I'm glad." 

He hums happily, feeling that little spring of tenderness overflowing in his chest. "You're too good to me, Rogers." 

"Don't think so," Steve says, as he presses his palm against Bucky's, until he's cupping the dog tags in his own hand. "Here, duck your head." 

Bucky does as he's told, ducking his head for Steve, feeling like he's being knighted. The cool weight of the dog tags is familiar; like they were a missing component from his body, just now restored. Those two tags—his, and Steve's—rest at his chest, right next to his heart, a vow of loyalty and love without so many words; _'till death do_ _us_ _part, and_ _beyond then, if it comes to that_. 

"Lemme—lemme get your gift," is all Bucky can say after that, his voice soft and damn-near breaking. "It's the least I could do." 

"Yeah," Steve says, watching as Bucky walks to their coat closet. Those dog tags beat against his chest as he walks, a second heartbeat against his own. It's fitting, and he only hopes his gift—hidden between shoeboxes at the back of their coat closet—will warm Steve up half as much as those dog tags did for him. 

"Like I said, I don't think there's any way in the world that I can follow up your gift," Bucky says, handing the brightly-wrapped package to Steve, "But here it is. I really—I really hope you like it." 

Steve tears at the wrapping carefully, his long, delicate-looking fingers acting with incredible care for something so small. Bucky smiles at this, and when Steve's eyes go wide and bright, his heart soars. 

" _The Velveteen Rabbit_? Ma used to read this to me all the time," Steve coos, "Oh, Buck—thank you." 

"It's—uh. An original printing," Bucky says, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Not the best quality, as far as wear and tear goes, unfortunately, but it was at this auction, and—I knew I had to get it to you." 

Steve smiles at Bucky, looking like he hadn't just brought Bucky back a gift from history itself, and Bucky had hung the stars, just for him. He pulls Bucky in close, threading their fingers together once again. The sparks are there, as always; they never really leave, not entirely. Bucky can't stop staring at Steve's lips, plush and pink and parted—just barely. Just so. 

"Hey," he says, leaning in, just stopping short of kissing him; just short of that threshold. "Can I kiss you, Steve?" 

"Of course, Buck," Steve replies, his voice low and raspy, as if caught in his throat, "Of course." 

And he does. He pushes forward, closing that gap between them, and they kiss. At 3:13 AM on December 25th, Christmas Day, Bucky and Steve kiss, no mistletoe or Christmas song or promises of sugar cookies required. They kiss long and passionate, falling into one another, deeper and deeper as the world around them continues to sleep. The past month—past few months, even—might have been rough. They might have had mission after mission, meeting after meeting, and hardly any time between to be with one another, but that moment is enough to make up for it. In that moment, they are the only two people in the world. 

"Hey," Bucky says, pulling away to breathe, "Steve." 

"Yeah?" Steve asks. He's breathing hard, his blue eyes blown wide and looking more vivid and bright than should have been possible. 

"Merry Christmas, Steve," is what Bucky says, eventually, an _I love you,_ in other words. 

Steve smiles, hooking his arms around Bucky's shoulders, and he responds in kind, not for the first time. 

"Merry Christmas, Bucky," he says, a clear, _I love you, too._ "Merry Christmas." 

When the sun comes up in New York City on Christmas Day, Steve and Bucky lie there still, in their familiar brownstone apartment, on their worn leather couch, wrapped up in one another. As the world begins to wake up, they sleep, soundly and together—one of the few times they've been able to do so in the past month. 

It's a simple gift, a surprise one—one that neither of them could have expected or asked for. 

But it's enough.

**Author's Note:**

> a few things: 
> 
> \- unbeta'd, so apologies for any spelling/grammatical errors. let me know if there's anything particularly glaring/distracting that i missed. 
> 
> \- this fic can be read as a sequel to last year's steve/bucky secret santa fic, but it isn't necessary to read one to get the other. if you want the "full" story, you can read that one [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5620300).
> 
> \- flight inaccuracies, sorry for any of them. as much as i fly, it's been years since i've been to laguardia but i doubt it's changed from all that much since i was last there, but just in case it has, caveat. 
> 
> \- bucky with freckles is the best thing in the world. see silentwalrus' fanart [here](https://silentwalrus1.tumblr.com/post/138927369033/silentwalrus1-i-can-make-no-promises-i-told) as proof of concept:
> 
> \- to be honest, both the freckles and the big, fluffy, wavy hair is thanks to silentwalrus' bucky. such a good bucky. (i may have a crush on gopnik bucky, but don't tell anyone). 
> 
> \- t.s. eliot is one of my favorite poets, and his focus on unreality of war is something that i think steve would appreciate, though he might not exactly be 100% into it. 
> 
> \- [here](http://www.pastperfect.com/Detail.aspx?itemid=67) is a great track listing of christmas songs from the 1920s through the 1940s that steve and bucky would have grown up with.
> 
> \- happy holidays and a wonderful new year, everyone. see you in 2017.


End file.
